


We can dance if we want to

by Pansexualweirdo



Category: The Simpsons
Genre: Dancing, Fluff, I couldn't resist, Implied Relationships, Intimacy, It's Moe What Did You Expect?, Jukeboxes, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Not a Song-Fic, POV Moe Szyslak, References to Dirty Dancing, Self-Esteem Issues, Short & Sweet, Slow Dancing, Song Lyrics, Suggestive Themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:06:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27907189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pansexualweirdo/pseuds/Pansexualweirdo
Summary: Smithers visits the bar on Moe's day off, and they share a dance or two.I have fully descended into Simpsons madness and cannot stop thinking about these two dorks, so I decided to write some disgusting, tooth-rotting fluff out of my system. Hope it's to your taste!
Relationships: Waylon Smithers & Moe Szyslak, Waylon Smithers/Moe Szyslak
Comments: 10
Kudos: 26





	We can dance if we want to

It’s rather late on a Thursday evening that Moe’s polishing wine and beer glasses from inside the bar as he awaits a certain customer to arrive. He keeps sneaking glances at the door, nothing better to do with his time than simply wait. He ponders on just how he got so lucky as to have this incredible man in his life; whatever he could have done to deserve him.

The sound of the doorbell snaps him out of his thoughts and he watches the visitor flip the sign on the door from ‘open’ to ’closed’ before stepping inside of the bar.

“Waylon Smithers,” he calls in greeting, struggling to keep the affection out of his voice and masking his grin. Smithers shoots him a civil nod, playing the part of the regular customer. He strides across the room and slides onto the barstool closest to Moe in a mastered motion, having done so dozens of times by now. “Moe Szyslak,” rolls off his tongue. Moe’s name sounds damn good coming out of his mouth.

Upholding the facade, the bartender sets down the glass he was polishing and stuffs the cloth inside his jean pocket; almost forgetting that he isn’t wearing an apron. He only did so on duty, and today was not one of those days.

“Can I getcha a glass of red wine?” he raises, not missing the glimmer of playfulness in bespectacled eyes.

Smithers nods: “Yes please, that sounds lovely,” and Moe winks at him, setting off to pour them both a glass.

They could do this once every week if they were lucky, normally during the least busy day. Moe’s bar was closed then, but Moe opened the place just to meet Waylon. If this was a business- owned establishment, he definitely wouldn’t be able to do this; but since he owned the bar and had no boss but himself, he could do whatever he wanted. They would have a few drinks and spend quality time together, then head back to one of theirs.

Moe hands Smithers his glass, their fingers brushing most deliberately upon the exchange, and Moe once again has to wipe the grin off his face. He leans against the counter, casually eliminating a few inches between them so he could give the man a thorough once-over.

Smithers’ outfit is flawless as always, white shirt tucked inside turquoise slacks and bowtie sitting just tight enough around his collar, the complimentary jacket hugging his shoulders. He holds himself openly but not cravingly so, hands placed inside his lap. _Collected_ , Moe thinks, _and confident, the very opposite of him._

“What made ya come to this here bar tonight, then, mistah?” Moe queries Waylon, keeping their charade up. He takes a slow sip from his glass of wine; it ain’t the best but the company makes it matter very little. Looks over the brim of the glass as Smithers pretends to mull over the question for a moment. He then adjusts his glasses, blinking up at Moe through long lashes. He hums: “It’s been a rough couple of days. I suppose I just needed a drink.. and maybe some sort of _consolation_ ”, dragging out that last word and pairing it with a hand coming up to cover Moe’s, which is resting on the counter; all to put a hitch in Moe’s breathing.

To his credit, it works. Moe feels a shot of desire shoot throughout his body, spreading heat from his chest and to his face. He snickers and utters, unsteadily: “Christ. You- er… You done this before?”

“Nope. But I’ll take that compliment.”

“You should,” replies Moe dumbly, eyes falling to Waylon’s lips before he manages to pull away and recollect himself to continue their game. He swipes his glass, asks: “You coulda gone to any ol’ bartender for consolation, though. Why me?”, feigning indifference. They could quit the act while they’re at it and engage in small talk instead, sharing how their day has been, but Moe can’t deny his interest in hearing Smithers’ response. The man gives a heavy sigh and swirls the last sip of wine around in his glass, looking down at the counter. He paints a perfect picture of disorientation and dejection and it genuinely makes the other’s heart ache inside his chest.

Either Moe has gone soft, or Waylon is a really good actor; Moe fears it might be a bit of _both_.

“Would you believe me if I said you were the first bartender I thought of?” asks Smithers, lifting his gaze to Moe’s, and Moe breaks character yet again, cracking a smile.

 _He’s so corny,_ he thought. _No way I can keep this act up any longer when all I wanna do is kiss him._

“Would you look at that?” Waylon frowned, showing his now empty glass. “It seems I’m out.”

“Allow me,” Moe volunteers, searching the shelves for a fancier-looking bottle; something more… _expensive_. He might not have a whole wine cellar filled with hundreds of years old liquor, like Smithers’ ex supervisor, but-...

He quickly shakes his head to get rid of that thought. He knows Waylon doesn’t care about how much money Moe has or how big his house is. If that was the case, they wouldn’t be dating now.

When he finds a bottle that seems promising, he can hear the familiar clicking of coins being put into the jukebox.

That thing hasn’t been used in a while, he’s not even sure if-

_Tonight you're mine completely_

_You give your love so sweetly_

_Tonight the light of love is in your eyes_

_But will you love me tomorrow?_

The sound of The Shirelles comes trickling out of the speakers. Moe has put this one on a couple of times before, when he got really lonely. He’s glad the circumstances are different now.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he mutters and turns around. Smithers shucks off his jacket with far too much grace for such a simple action, draping it over a barstool, and he is no longer playing a character when he asks: “Dance with me?”

He looks shy, but determined, reaching a hand out across the bar. Moe feels his face grow hot as he silently curses himself for never, _ever_ dancing. He doesn’t have a jot of rhythm in his useless body.

“I- I’d love to, Waylon, ya’know I would, but-... I can’t dance. Like, at all.”

“Nonsense; everyone can dance. It doesn’t have to be anything fancy; I just wanna hold you for a bit,” replies Waylon, entirely sure of his statement, still not retracting his hand. He looks dazzling in that crisp white shirt of his and his bowtie, an adoring smile on his features that’s more than enough to convince Moe to _grab his hand, ya moron!_

Moe rubs at his neck, caught off guard by the affectionate word choice: “Sheesh, I- uh… I s’pose,” and he’s pulled out onto the make-believe ‘dance floor’ that is his less than spacious bar. _Just_ _don’t step on his feet and you’ll be fine,_ he reminds himself. Waylon doesn’t look phased with his date’s complete inability to as much as make the first move, but instead guides Moe’s hands where he wants them. His right goes around Smithers’ lean but firm waist and the left goes into Smithers’ right hand. Easy enough.

Then Waylon rests his free hand on Moe’s back and tells him to hold him tighter. Like he has to ask. “Don’t look so scared,” he whispers, leaning in to give him a quick peck of encouragement on his lips. “I’m right here.” He manages to make Moe feel wanted, _appreciated_ , even. It’s almost scary.

Then, as the chorus repeats, he tells Moe the ‘steps’. Two forward, one back. That should be easy enough. He probably made it easier for him, so there’s no way he can screw it up now. Smithers leads, stepping back twice with Moe in tow, and then forward once.

_Tonight with words unspoken_

_You say that I'm the only one_

_But will my heart be broken_

_When the night meets the morning sun?_

Hey, this isn’t too bad, they’re doing it! Thanks to Moe staying hyper-focused only on their feet, they’re actually doing it. Waylon chuckles, says: “You look like you’re holding your feet hostage.”

Right. It’s a _romantic_ dance. He’s supposed to be looking up at Smithers.

“Sorry,” Moe apologizes, sheepish, but Smithers doesn’t look especially bothered. His expression is soft with amusement and love and Moe swallows, the sound of it loud despite the music.

“It’s okay,” Waylon ensures him.

They repeat the steps a couple of times, and just as Moe thinks that he might actually be getting it, he loses his balance and steps on Waylon’s foot.

“S- Sorry!” he winces, again. Yet Smithers only laughs, squeezing his hand and shaking his head. He leads Moe into motion again, and thankfully, Moe manages to keep up. “You’re okay. We’re not competing here.”

_That’s true enough._

The song fades and, confident enough to try out a move he’s seen others do on the television, he turns and dips Waylon in a finishing move. Although mildly surprised, the man follows. When he straightens, he laughs again; one of those laughs that crinkles the corners of his eyes. Moe’s heart picks up pace.

“And you said you couldn’t dance,” says Smithers, though the bartender begs to differ. “I dunno if they’d call this dancin’, but sure.”

The next song that plays is a slower one, complete with a starting riff. Ah, a classic.

_Only you can make all this world seem right_

_Only you can make the darkness bright..._

Smithers prompts him: “Let’s slow dance”, locking both arms around Moe’s neck, and Moe decides to play the fool. “I thought we already _were_ dancin’ slow.”

“Smartass.”

“O’course.” And slow dancing is a hell of a lot easier to do, it proves. Moe wraps both arms around Waylon’s waist and holds him close, and they move in small circles over the floor, mostly just enjoying each other’s company. Smithers is good at dancing, too. _Is there anything the guy_ can’t _do?_ wonders Moe, perplexed.

Waylon buries his face in the other’s shoulder, noses at the line of his neck. He presses a kiss to the space behind his ear and his hot breath fans over his skin. Moe shudders, grip unconsciously tightening on the other’s hips.

“I love you, Moe,” Smithers states, honest and undaunted. He lifts his head to blink up at him; Moe can’t believe his luck.

“I…” he begins, pauses.

_Don’t get it. Why would anyone ever make such a stupid, no-good, terrible decision?_

No, he can’t think like that, he’s going to ruin the mood. Why would Waylon lie about this? They’ve been together for weeks: Smithers isn’t going anywhere.

It’s incredibly easy to reply: “-... me too,” and mean it. _Fuck_ , he loves Smithers. With every fiber of his being. And maybe that sounds intense, but that’s just how he loves. Granted, it didn’t happen all at once, it took time to even trust that Waylon was genuinely into him and not just taking the piss. Either way, he’s starting to believe him more and more.

Smithers pulls him down into a long, deep kiss. He pushes his fingers into his hair and presses their chests together, body heat seeping through thin layers of clothes.

_When you hold my hand I understand the magic that you do_

_You're my dream come true, my one and only you…_

Everything in the background fades around them as they stand there and kiss, rocking back and forth to the music that’s quieting down. A new song takes its place and it’s eerily familiar. It should be the last one, you get three for a buck if Moe remembers it right, so he definitely wants to make the most out of this.

_When your baby leaves you all alone_

_And nobody calls you on the phone_

_Don’t you feel like crying?_

_Don’t you feel like crying?_

_Well here I am, my honey, ah c’mon, cry to me_

Moe pulls away from their kiss just to exclaim: “Hey, I know this one! It’s from that movie of the girl dancin’ with Patrick Swayze.”

It’s a vague-ass guess, but Smithers catches on anyway, obviously knowing the movie well enough to name one of its soundtracks. “You mean Dirty Dancing?” he asks, amused.

“Yea, that’s it!”

And Waylon pulls him back down for another heated kiss, the slow, wet drag of his tongue against his lips sending a rush of excitement down Moe’s spine. Smithers’ fingers pluck at the top buttons of his shirt and Moe returns the gesture by rucking up that crisp white shirt of his and revealing tan skin beneath. He greedily slips one hand beneath the fabric and traces the divots in Waylon’s spine with his fingers, a sense of triumphance when coaxing a sigh from the other. Having unbuttoned about half of Moe’s shirt, Waylon runs a hand down his chest, through his chest hair and down his stomach. His touch is gentle yet bold, just like his kisses; the combination is maddening.

_Nothing can be sadder than a glass of wine alone_

_Loneliness, loneliness, such a waste of time, oh yeah_

_But you don't ever have to walk alone, oh you see_

_Oh come on, take my hand, and baby, won't you walk with me?_

_Whoa yeah_

They’re hardly dancing anymore; more like swaying to the music, hands raking over skin and mouths moving in tandem. Moe’s reminded, the more they kiss and the further the song progresses, of the scene in the movie which this song plays. Now, he might not be the greatest dancer, but he can pull off other tricks - _hopefully_.

So when they part for breath and Waylon slowly pulls back, arching his back and tipping his head backward, Moe holds onto him, swallowing down the groan that vibrates in his chest when their hips are pushed together. He bends the knee slotted between the other’s thighs and dips Waylon in his arms. His lover’s on the same page, back arching beautifully when he follows.

Whatever hesitation or worries the bartender may have had when they started dancing has now vanished and been replaced by love and lust; good riddance to those other feelings.

Moe hooks a finger in Smithers’ bowtie and unfastens it, letting it hang around the man’s neck, which looks particularly inviting, so he bows his head to pepper it with licks and kisses. A small sigh escapes Waylon’s lips and he stretches his neck out to give him more access. A kiss to the dip in his throat, a bite where his throat meets his shoulder. Moe’s got Smithers’ skin mapped out in his mind, each scar and freckle. Every weak spot.

Right as he sinks his teeth into one of those weak spots, at Waylon’s pulse point, coaxing a breathy moan from him, Moe lets his gaze wander, and he spots a couple walking by the bar windows. They slow down to a brief stop when they see the two men inside, and if this was Moe only weeks ago, he probably would have freaked out and hid; but this isn't the case now. Instead of shame, he’s filled with a sense of righteousness, and of insouciance. So he raises an eyebrow over Waylon’s shoulder in challenge for the couple outside the glass, and soon enough, they move along, hand in hand and giggling. Moe smiles to himself, pressing his nose against the line of Smithers’ neck and muttering into his skin: “Wanna head back to my place?”


End file.
